


cradle me, i'll cradle you

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, written by a trans mlm author for a trans mlm friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Foggy draws in a deep breath, holds it, and flips over the test—And it’s just one, little pink line.Shit! He really thought they had a shot at this. Foggy sighs, and the words are all ready to go in his throat.I’m sorry, Matty, he’ll say, but it says no. If this is still something you want, we can try again—Hold on…wait a second.





	cradle me, i'll cradle you

**Author's Note:**

> you might be asking yourself at this point "why do you only ever write kidfic???" and i really don't have an answer, other than that i like it, and it makes me happy!! :) BUT!! i can say that this time, it's not my fault! this fic was requested by my good friend pj! we have a little domestic au going, so we wanted to bring that into fruition! i'll probably write more about it, especially if you folks like this!! 
> 
> so like i said in the tags, i'm trans and i want kids, and the friend i wrote this for is trans and also would like to have kids. so this fic is really intimate, and a gift to the trans community! but please remember when you read this, if you're not trans/nb, that this experience is not universal, and not every transmasc person feels the way we do. lots of trans men don't want to start a family this way, and that's totally okay. for some, it can trigger dysphoria, and others just might not want to. please remember when talking to trans people about stuff like this to allow them to lead the conversation, because it's our life + our experience! thank you ! ♡
> 
> please let me know what y'all think!!! i cherish your opinions and feedback!! 
> 
> (the title is from "toothpaste kisses" by the maccabees!)

Okay, so it’s not like they haven’t talked about it before. They have! Once. Just once, when Matt had blood on his face and hands, and wasn’t making a lick of sense. It had kind of thrown Foggy for a curveball, because he’d never been a hundred percent sure if Matt would even be _interested_. But then everything happened with Elektra, and Midland Circle, and Matt _died—_ and no one should have to write a eulogy for their partner before they’re _thirty_ , but the smudged first draft is still sitting in a crumpled ball in Foggy’s sock drawer—but anyway, the point is that they didn’t really have _time_ to talk about it again. 

 

That’s not to say that Foggy hasn’t _thought_ about it. He’s thought about it a lot. After that initial— _only_ — conversation he’d laid awake and stared at the ceiling, Matt passed out under his arm. When the news of Matt’s “death” hit him like a fucking freight train going one hundred and fifty _zillion_ miles an hour, it was the first thing on his mind. Thoughts about it tend to slip in and out, but Matt hasn’t brought it up, so Foggy doesn’t either. 

 

Plus, they’re kind of recovering, still grappling to find some sense of normalcy (ha, ha. Fat chance, Nelson.) after the many, _many_ times that the universe has tried to fuck up their lives. Their most pressing responsibility right now is to _simplify_ things, and throwing _that_ into the mix would just make stuff more complicated. 

 

Their honeymoon was a really, _really_ great break, but now the grown-up world beckons, and it’s back to the old grind. They’ve got the momentum and the stability to get back saving the world from their cozy little office, and things are going _great_. 

 

But then Matt Murdock takes a sick day. And he like, never does that. _Ever_. He’s only ever skipped work when he’s hurt too bad to stand. But staying home with the sniffles or an upset stomach? It’s _never_ happened. For the past few weeks, he’s been pale and nauseous. He’s been complaining that everything smells worse than usual, and that the noise pollution is getting to his head—but he’s still been showing up to work like the _Little Engine That Could_ that he is. Matt would sooner puke on a witness in front of the judge, jury, and God Himself before staying home. But today, that’s what happened. 

 

Matt spent the whole morning in the bathroom, and then politely booted Foggy from the apartment. And he knew that Foggy would worry, because all he does is worry—he has a JD in law and a PhD in worrying about Matt—so he sends him little comforting updates throughout the day. 

 

_I’m fine. I just need some rest._

 

_Thank you for the ginger ale. Heart._

 

_Do great things today._

 

It keeps Foggy from ripping his hair out, at least, but not having Matt in the office is _weird_. It’s just him and Karen, which isn’t _bad_ , because Karen is one of his best friends…even if she’s Totally Not Dating ™️ (translation: Totally Dating ™️ ) a gun-toting psychopath who’s not as scary as he looks but is still pretty scary. He spends the whole day eagerly waiting to go home and fuss over his puke-y husband. He closes up shop early and sends Karen home with a kiss on the cheek. 

 

 

Then, he stops at Whole Foods to grab another liter of ginger ale, some crackers, and a cup of hot chicken broth. When he puts the soup down by the register, the cashier lifts an eyebrow as if to ask _“Why the Hell are you buying hot soup in the middle of August?!”_ However, once Foggy puts down the ginger ale and Saltines, it clicks. 

 

_You better be resting_ , he warns Matt over text as he walks home, _I’ll be home in five. I got soup. Love you. Heart._

 

He balances the groceries on his knee as he jimmies the key into the lock and pushes the door open with his hip. Just as he suspected, Matt’s not resting. He’s curled up on the couch, book in hand, fingers sliding across the pages. 

 

Foggy sets everything down on the coffee table and presses a kiss to the top of Matt’s head. He doesn’t have a super-nose like Matt does, but he doesn’t need one to know that he smells _sick._ He looks all pale and peaky, with a glimmer of sweat on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes. 

 

“Aw, honey…” Foggy brushes the back of his hand against Matt’s forehead. It’s clammy, but not hot. At least he doesn’t have a fever. “You look like shit. Are you feeling any better?” 

 

Matt gives a soft hum. “Looks can be deceiving,” he replies as he closes the book and sets it down on the coffee table, “I’m fine.” It’s not an _I’m in perfect health_ kind of _I’m fine_ , or the kind that says _I feel like I could drop dead any second but don’t worry about me._ It’s honest, and content—as content as he can be, given the circumstances.

 

“Are you feeling fine enough to eat?” Foggy’s hand drifts through Matt’s hair, fingertips brushing over the sweat gathered at the roots. 

 

Sometimes, Matt gets what he calls _sense sickness_ , where for a day or two, all the stimuli pressing down on him at all hours of the day becomes too much. The city stinks and makes him gag, and every brush against his skin is like a wildfire. Migraines and tinnitus block out his hearing, and the light burns his eyes even though he can’t see it. Bad sense days are few and far between, but they usually hit in the summer, when everyone’s sweaty and the city smells rank. But Matt usually tells Foggy about it, or gives him some kind of warning. 

 

Maybe he just caught something on their trip. 

 

If it doesn’t improve in a few days, Claire is just a phone call away. 

 

Matt thinks it over, but definitely looks intrigued by the smell of the broth. “Yeah,” he announces a sniff later, “I think I could eat.” It’s a good sign. If it were sense sickness, Foggy wouldn’t have been able to even bring food into the apartment. “I really do feel better, Fog.” His arms sling around Foggy’s hips and he tilts his head forward to rest against his stomach. “I’m more worn out than anything else.” 

 

Foggy gives him a light hug, mindful not to squeeze him too hard. The worst thing you can do to a queasy person is hug the stuffing out of them—literally. “Okay! Why don’t you put on something that doesn’t smell like stomach acid while I get dinner ready…okay?” But Matt doesn’t budge. Foggy tries to take a step back, but Matt’s arms only tighten around him in retaliation. He’s only holding on with roughly sixty percent of his strength, but he clearly wants Foggy to stay where he is. “Matty, you gotta let go of me, okay? Not that I don’t love hugs or anything…Is there a word stronger than love? But you probably haven’t eaten all day.” He lightly runs his knuckles along Matt’s spine, unlocking his grip. “Go and change. Fresh PJs are in the laundry basket.” 

 

Matt makes a huge show of dragging himself from the couch to the bedroom. But it’s not like he _ever_ plays the wounded duck, or anything. And the Academy Award goes to… 

 

People often look at his confidence and poise in the courtroom and that’s all they see; Foggy has the rare, glorious opportunity to see Matt as his most theatrical, and also his most vulnerable. He doubts that people who don’t know him—really _know_ him—can even _imagine_ him being vulnerable. Prosecutors can’t visualize him in his bare feet and pajamas, shuffling around early in the morning and demanding kisses and a hot mug of coffee. Clients don’t sit in front of his desk and imagine what he looks like in bed—well, actually. They probably do. Most people probably do. But none of them can imagine him wrapped up in the shiny afterglow; they can’t even _begin_ to picture the drying tears on his cheeks and the way his mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of something to say. They can’t paint an image of the bubbles that cling to his collarbones when he falls asleep in the bathtub. 

 

Nobody knows Matt like Foggy does, and he’s proud of that. Sure, some people know him as a friend, and a handful of them know that he’s Daredevil, but Foggy’s the only one who knows what his breathless laugh-moaning sounds like when one of them makes a shitty pun between the sheets. 

 

Foggy thinks about that as he cooks up some rice to add to the broth. He thinks about how love is made of all the little things stacked on top of each other to build a strong foundation. It’s made of their association with avocados, and the fact that they text each other _heart_ instead of emojis. It’s made of the way their hearts flutter whenever they hear “Drops of Jupiter” on the radio. It’s made of all the times that Foggy’s switched out Matt’s plain black socks with goofy patterned ones, and Matt wears them to court anyway and pretends not to notice. 

 

Sure, there’s some grand gestures thrown in. Getting engaged was pretty damn grand, and their wedding even more so. But those are still just bricks building up the home they’ve made together. 

 

Sometimes, making someone dinner can be just as good as a big ceremony with lots of dahlias (they don’t smell)and an open bar—if not better. 

 

As the soup warms, he stirs up a glass of ginger ale and sets the crackers on a plate. 

 

Matt sneaks into the kitchen and deposits himself on a stool as Foggy’s ladling the broth and rice into two bowls. He appraises the meal and then picks up a cracker. He breaks off a small piece and puts it in his mouth, just to test the waters. “Thank you,” he says softly but not quietly, as he decides that he can _totally_ handle a whole saltine and eats the rest of the cracker whole. 

 

“Hey, no problem.” Foggy drops a spoon into the bowl with a clink. “Nothing like warm soup and ginger ale, right?”He fills up a bowl for himself and pokes Matt with his spoon. “Eat. You’ll feel better.” 

 

They eat slowly, and in relative silence. Occasionally, Matt asks him questions about his day. He asks casually, trying not to look like he’s frantically trying to gather intel about the goings-on at their firm. And Foggy tells him every last detail, from the meeting with the single dad trying to get parole so he can be with his son, to the plate of half moon cookies that Mrs. Weber brought by as a _thank you_ for protecting her bakery. It’s not just the big things he cares about, either. He wants to know if Mr. Liu’s dog is okay after the recent dog food recall, and if Mrs. Hayworth’s son lost his tooth yet—the one in the back, that he’s always wiggling with. 

 

That’s the thing about Matt that drives Foggy crazy. He’s got so much on his plate, between the job, and _the job_ , and so many people are relying on him at any given time—and yet he still cares the most about the little stuff.Maybe it keeps him linked to his humanity, or maybe he just cares _that damn much_ about everybody. 

 

He seems a little better after they eat. He’s got some color in his cheeks again, and says that he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to keep it all down. 

 

Foggy gathers his work stuff at the coffee table and starts looking over his notes from all of today’s many, many meetings as Matt slips into the bathroom for a shower. Their most pressing case this month is defending a young retail worker who claims she was unjustly fired after her boss found out she was trans. She and Matt had immediately clicked, swapping life stories and lamenting about the woes of living with dysphoria. A lot of that stuff goes over Foggy’s head, and he’s never gonna get it. Feeling weird about your body, that’s something he gets, but the gender stuff just…He understands it as much as someone who’ll never experience can, and he knows how to respect it. 

 

He knows what to do when Matt has _those days_ , where the problem isn’t what he can hear or smell or _feel._ It’s about what he _can’t see_ : the guy in the mirror. Those days are trickier than the sense sickness, and when he’s too beat up to stand on his own. They require a kind of emotional delicacy, and memorizing lines that Foggy knows will help. He knows what to say, and wha _t not_ to say, and how to remind Matt that the person he is now is just right. 

 

There hasn’t been a day like that in a while. Every time there’s a lull, Foggy hopes Matt will never feel like that again. 

 

He’s halfway through skimming an article about a similar case from two years ago when the bathroom door pops open and Matt wanders out, once again in clean pajamas. Foggy doesn’t look up from his laptop as he gives him a wave in greeting. 

 

“Whew!” he calls, “You smell better already.” 

 

Matt’s hand finds Foggy’s shoulder and he leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m not contagious,” he promises. Not that Foggy would care if he were. Nothing would stop him from accepting Matty kisses, and that’s a _fact_. You can write that down, sign it, and take it to the bank. 

 

“Glad to hear it, hon’. I’m just reading up for Elisa’s case.” 

 

“Yeah?” Matt’s hand slides a little lower and rubs over Foggy’s collarbone. “Can you read something for me? I couldn’t get it in braille.” 

 

Without even looking up, Foggy holds out his hand. “Yep. Just put it in the drop box—and by the drop box, I mean my hand. The left one.” He uses said hand to tap Matt’s cheek to signify its location. He’s expecting paper—like a packet, or a file, or maybe even a book. Matt places the thing in his hands, and he frowns. 

 

Yeah. Definitely not paper. But totally a _thing_. 

 

“What’s this?” he asks, wrapping his fingers around it and pulling his hand back towards his face. It’s plastic, more or less flat, and about the length of a pen. Foggy’s heart does a weird little flop in his chest, and then starts jumping up and down on a proverbial trampoline at ankle-breaking speed. He thinks he knows what it is before he even looks at it, but he opens his hand, and… “Hey, Matt?” 

 

Yep. That’s an at-home pregnancy test all right. 

 

Matt must hear his heart going bonkers inside his ribcage, because he gives a small laugh against Foggy’s cheek and then crosses in front of the couch to lean against the coffee table. “Yeah?” 

 

“Uh…Why did you give me this?” It’s pretty damn obvious why he gave it to him, but looking at it makes his mouth go dry. He’d thought that this was an option, of course. He’d had a _theory_. You don’t get to spend your life in a family as big as the Nelson clan and walk away without knowing the signs that the family’s gonna get a little bigger. And Matt’s been broodier than usual, and _clingier_ than usual; he’s been complaining that everything smells worse, and puking constantly. That’s textbook stuff! So it’s not like Foggy hasn’t considered it being an option. It’s been sitting in the back of his mind, a question buried under a mountain of doubts. He doesn’t even have to look at the test to know what it says. Matt knows his body better than most people know theirs—if something’s out of place, he can hear it, or smell it. He’s like one of those dogs that can smell cancer.

 

And the smile on Matt’s face confirms that. He totally knows. He’s probably known all day. Smug bastard. “I gave it to you to read.” He taps his temple, right by his eye, knowingly. “Seeing as I can’t.” 

 

“So you want me to read it for you? Okay…” Is his voice shaking? He’s pretty sure his voice is shaking, and even if it weren’t, Matt would probably be able to hear the tiniest tremor underneath his words like a hairline fracture. He can hear his heart pounding, for sure, and it shows. Foggy draws in a deep breath, holds it, and flips over the test— 

 

And it’s just one, little pink line. 

 

Shit! He really thought they had a shot at this. Foggy sighs, and the words are all ready to go in his throat. _I’m sorry, Matty_ , he’ll say, _but it says no. If this is still something you want, we can try again—_

 

Hold on…wait a second. 

 

Foggy wrinkles his eyebrows as he looks at the test a little bit closer. Just barely visible and so faint that he really has to squint, is a second line. 

 

There’s two lines. 

 

There’s _two lines_. 

 

Oh my God. 

 

“Oh my God!” Foggy’s hand tightens around the test so much that it nearly cracks in half. He has to put it down as he lets out a watery laugh of disbelief. “Really? Like, I know you gave it to me, but— _really!?_ ” 

 

Matt gives a nervous smile—well, maybe not _nervous_ , but like…bashful. Yeah, he looks bashful and small, when he’s usually anything but. His voice even shakes a little. “So I’m guessing it’s good news?” His smug posture breaks and he buckles in on himself a little bit, growing just a little weaker on his foundation. Good thing Foggy’s his wall—he rushes forward to catch Matt up in his arms and they meld into a single person. 

 

Foggy gives a sniffle, and the sniffle becomes a whimper, and the whimper becomes a sob. Next thing he knows, he’s clinging onto Matt and crying like—like he doesn’t know what! Like the Mets just won the World Series or something! Matt crumbles against him and grips him tightly, and anything could happen right now and he’d be okay with it. There could be an alien invasion (again), or he and Matt could just…turn to dust in each other’s arms, and it wouldn’t matter. All that matters is this, the two of them, right now. 

 

The _three_ of them. Holy shit. 

 

(Or four. There could be two in there, they don’t know! Foggy wouldn’t mind that. He likes kids, and kids like him, and kids _love_ Matt. And Luckily, Matt seems to love kids too. When he’s not at the office, or in the courtroom, or on the streets—or curled up in Foggy’s arms—Matt’s always down at the School for the Blind, reading with the kids or taking them on field trips. So yeah, Foggy could handle twins. He could _totally_ handle twins.) 

 

“This is real, right? Like, you’re not pranking me?” Foggy asks as he sets his hands on Matt’s face. Matt does this sweet, vulnerable thing where his eyes get all wet and he gives him a crumpled smile. For someone who tries to always hide when something’s _wrong_ , Matt is surprisingly shit at trying to hide when something’s _right_. Foggy rubs away a wayward tear with his thumb. 

 

Matt tilts his face forward into the touch, hand gently grasping Foggy’s forearm. When he laughs, it’s got some unexpected bubbles in it. It’s Matt’s tipsy laugh, when he’s downed two glasses of wine and just feels _good_. “Do you even have to ask?” Matt doesn’t do _pranks_. He does jokes, a little bit more than people might think, but this isn’t something he’d kid (ha ha) around about. 

 

Which means it’s real. 

 

Okay. Wow. 

 

“Hey, I just gotta make sure.” Foggy gives a shrug. A breath passes between them and he glances at the floor to collect his words, and then back to Matt. He’s never seen a more perfect person in his entire life. Matt’s always perfect, especially when he’s not. But there’s a new layer to him, a new glossy sheen on his warm skin. He’s _glowing_. (It could just be the sweat from getting sick so many times, but Foggy likes to think it’s some sort of divine, full-body halo.)“So you’re really…” A breath rushes out of him with a _whoosh_. “Um…” 

 

“Pregnant?” Matt offers—and it’s funny how one word can really grab your life by the hair and bodyslam it onto its side. Except this is the best bodyslam _imaginable_! Actually, it’s probably even _better_ than that, because your imagination can only take you so far. A wide, unrestrained smile breaks out on his face, and it makes Foggy’s heart go _!!!!!!!_. He doesn’t even bother to play coy, just takes Foggy’s hands in his and squeezes them tightly. “I guess so.” 

 

_Boom_. Bodyslam. Nelson’s down for the count. 

 

Foggy’s laugh dissolves into another sob as he drops his forehead onto their joined hands. “Sorry, I just—God, I need a second.” His breath isn’t gonna even out, so he stops worrying about and lifts his head. “Honey!” His eyebrows knit together when he smiles. He grabs Matt’s face, still a little clammy from chucking up his guts so many times. Their lips meet once, and then they can’t get enough of each other. They kiss over and over—Foggy couldn’t keep count even if he wanted to—and they barely take the time to breathe. 

 

“I take it you’re excited,” Matt mumbles as Foggy moves away from his lips and takes a show of kissing him all over his face. 

 

Foggy kisses his nose. “Shut up.” His lips travel to his cheek, and then to his chin. “I love you.” He smacks him on the forehead. “I love you so much that I feel like I’m gonna die.” 

 

Matt laughs and wrinkles his nose, helpless against the onslaught of kisses. “Well, don’t do that.” He can fight off thugs with guns, and assassins with knives, and ninjas, apparently, but Matt is defenseless in the face of a love attack. All he can do is wave his little white flag as Foggy assaults his face with kiss after kiss. “I love you too.” 

 

A little out of breath, Foggy leans his forehead against Matt’s. “This is real, isn’t it?” he asks, giving him one last kiss, “We’re having a kid?” 

 

Something passes over Matt and grabs at all the corners and edges of his face. It tugs down his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. If Foggy had super-ears, he’s sure he’d hear Matt’s heart beating fast. He’s anxious, as if Foggy’s gonna tell him _“I know I just hugged the stuffing out of you and kissed all over your stupid face, but I actually don’t want to have a kid with you, sorry”_.

 

He gives an awkward shuffle of his feet. “I mean…if you want to.” 

 

Foggy wants nothing more than to bundle Matt up into his arms and shush away all of his doubts. It only takes a second to remember that _oh yeah, I can_. So he does. He puts his arms around him and rests his cheek against the top of Matt’s head. His hair’s still a little wet, but it’s gotten all fluffed up as it’s begun to dry. “Oh, Matty,” he mumbles, smiling and kissing his hair, “Oh, honey, of _course_ I want to! Dude, you have no _idea_ how much I wanna do this with you!” 

 

He’s always wanted this. 

 

From the second Matt wandered into their dorm room when they were eighteen, something about him grabbed Foggy by the heart and didn’t let go. Maybe it was his fluffy hair, or the charming, awkward way he fumbled through their first encounter. Maybe it was because he laughed at Foggy’s peepers joke. Or maybe it was just all of him. Foggy would probably never know for sure. But he’s sure that he’d always wanted this. He’d wanted a million little moments slotted together to make up a huge, beautiful mosaic of _them_ that he could hang on the wall and stare at forever. That mosaic included little squares for mid-morning kisses (check), building IKEA furniture for their home (check), getting _married_ and giving Matt a movie star kiss, complete with the ol’ Hollywood dip (check, but _Matt_ dipped _him_ ), and having kids (Foggy mentally drops down an enthusiastic checkmark, complete with a ton of exclamation points). 

 

“You do?” Matt asks with a smile that makes his whole face shine. He lets out this little puff of laughter, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Because I do too—I needed some time to think about it, but I do. I really, _really_ do.” 

 

Foggy rolls his eyes fondly even though Matt can’t see it. He can probably hear his eyeballs moving around or something, which is kind of gross, but whatever. “Oh my God— _YES!_ ” Foggy holds his face and kisses him right on that nose of his that gets punched too many times for his liking, but still looks cute. “Do I have to yell it to the whole city? Because I will.” 

 

Matt sets his hand over Foggy’s and tips forward to kiss him. “That won’t be necessary, counselor. I trust you.” And God, isn’t that a loaded statement? 

 

Trust. That’s what makes them _them_. That’s the foundation they’ve built this home on. Sometimes, that foundation’s gotten a little shaky, and sometimes it’s been broken. But they always get down on their knees and spackle all the cracks until they’re stronger than before. It still makes Foggy’s heart float away like a bubble whenever Matt says he trusts him. 

 

Matt _trusts_ him, and he _loves_ him, and he’s going to have a _kid_ with him. A kid! A tiny little person that’s half of Matt and half of Foggy, that they’re gonna be stuck with for the rest of their lives. They’re gonna have little hands and feet, and they’ll teach them to crawl, and then walk, and then _run._ And they’re gonna be _dads_. Ha ha, but also, holy _shit_. 

 

It’s only when Matt brushes his fingers over his cheek, right under his eyes, that Foggy realizes that he’s still crying. God, they—they’re _both_ crying. It’s a good cry. It’s the _best_ cry. It’s better than the love confession cry, and the engagement cry, and the wedding cry all put together. 

 

“Hey,” Foggy greets, setting his hands on Matt’s hips. He steps a little closer until they’re pressed together. His nose bumps Matt’s as they tilt their faces to meet each other. 

 

Matt’s laugh is a watery little snort. “Hi.” 

 

Foggy’s hand lifts from Matt’s hip and slides along his waist. “Can I…” He taps his fingers against Matt’s side to make the message clear. 

 

Smiling, Matt takes Foggy’s hand in his. His palms are rougher than Foggy’s, and his fingers are just a little crooked from being broken so many times. But they’re still the best hands, and the hands that Foggy wants to hold, like, _forever_ , and longer by far. Matt goes to bite down on his smile for a second, but then remembers that he’s allowed to be happy and just smiles. His hand gently guides Foggy’s away from his hip and towards the middle, under his belly button. 

 

“Um…” Foggy gives the spot a little pat and glances down. “Hi.” 

 

Oh, this is gonna be _awesome_. 


End file.
